


Sidetracked

by Tierfal



Category: Death Note
Genre: Drama, M/M, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-07
Updated: 2010-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-07 02:11:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tierfal/pseuds/Tierfal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mello makes an awfully good distraction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sidetracked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sabriel75](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabriel75/gifts).



> For the wonderful sabriel75, who wanted a fic in the spirit of [Full of Surprises](http://community.livejournal.com/tierfallen/71169.html). Oh, boy. XD

Near is prepared to tell the truth.

…in his way.

—

  
Mello likes New York. It's almost as dirty as L.A., but it doesn't gloss over the filth, doesn't pretend that red carpets and theme parks cover the gutters and fill the needle holes. He likes that—the hopeless honesty.

His phone rings. He knows who it is even before he's snatched it from his pocket.

"What?"

Near breathes once before he speaks—and even then all he manages is "Mello."

"The one and only," Mello retorts. "What do you want?"

"I—wanted… to talk."

"So talk," Mello suggests, bringing up a shoulder to hold the phone against his ear, which frees his hands for unwrapping chocolate.

"…I was hoping you could stop by. Evidently you know where to find me."

Mello breaks off the corner of the bar. "Damn right. You want me to 'stop by' now? I could be there in ten minutes."

It would be closer to fifteen. Like hell he'll stand around waiting for Near to be ready for him.

"I was thinking," Near murmurs, "you might come tonight."

…like _that_, then.

Viciously, Mello smirks. "Can do," he decides. "But this sounds an awful lot like collaboration, Near. What's in it for me?"

Near pauses. "I'll make it worth your while," he promises.

This just gets better and better.

He can hear it in Near's voice that the boy remembers—remembers things that were said and done when they were children, remembers hisses and whispers and teethmarks left behind.

And now Near has seen him for the first time since then, since they were kids—now Near knows what change the years have wrought in every part of Mello that counts.

Mello is quite aware that he looks pretty fucking sexy for a guy who blew half of his face off.

That's the kind of confidence you can't buy.

"Who should I bring in at gunpoint this time?" he inquires.

"That won't be necessary," Near replies. "There's a service door on the bottom floor, around the back, which I can operate remotely. You need only be there."

"Cool," Mello says, and shuts the phone.

He wedges the end of the chocolate bar between his teeth and snaps off three more squares, grinning like a cat.

—

  
He didn't bother to get specifics, and he's never been much for decorum anyway, so Mello shows up at ten at night, the bike rumbling contentedly beneath him as he draws it into the parking lot and around the building Near calls home.

Or at least calls HQ.

He takes his phone out to announce his arrival when he's three steps from the door Near mentioned, which is typical industrial steel and lacks a handle on the outside.

Near's never been one for taking chances, which is why Mello's going to win.

Before Mello can start a text, however, the phone vibrates to indicate that it has received one, at the same time as complex machinery grinds behind the door.

_Push_, Near instructs.

Mello sets one hand against the steel and obliges. The door swings inward and open, and he saunters through.

He's entered what appears to be a warehouse, if the towering stacks of boxes and crates revealed by minimalistic fluorescent lighting are to be believed.

He strolls through, unhurried, admiring the scenery, and his phone buzzes once more in his palm.

_Elevator out and to your left. Twelfth floor._

Mello grins again as he follows the directions obediently. Near's watching him closely, the voyeuristic little bitch.

The elevator hums a familiar tune punctuated by the bright, rhythmic beeping that brings him closer to his goal.

Nine. Ten. Eleven.

As the doors part, the phone in his hand shudders one more time.

_Third on the right down the hall before you._

Shaking his head, Mello shoves the phone back into his pocket and swaggers down the corridor to the designated door, which he shoves open with enough force to send it rebounding against the wall.

Mello's into making entrances.

Near sits cross-legged on the double bed, and for a moment, it's difficult to distinguish where cotton pajamas end and down comforter begins. He sets his cell phone on the nightstand next to a silver MacBook, and then he folds his hands in his lap and looks up at Mello, white curls veiling wide gray eyes.

"What is this, fucking Simon Says?" Mello asks around a smirk he can't suppress.

Near blinks twice.

"It's all right if Simon gives consent," he answers.

Near's remarkably good at this for such an unrepentant prude.

Then again, Mello stands as living, breathing, scarred-over proof that things have changed.

He sheds his coat and climbs up onto the foot of the bed.

"As long as Simon is over eighteen," he remarks.

Near watches contentedly through thick, dark eyelashes that Mello has not forgotten.

"Which you know very well he is," he responds.

Mello grips the boy's lapels and drags him forward, breathing the scent he remembers, bringing the recollections sharply into focus—soap, laundry detergent, and new plastic, undercut by the oldness of wooden train tracks and puzzle pieces with their edges worn from use.

One way or another, he's missed this.

Fortunately, Near seems to feel the same way.

Little white hands wander up Mello's neck to curl their fingers in his hair, winding it around the knuckles. They pull him closer still; and Mello twists his own hands in the yielding cotton of Near's shirt; and soft lips mouth warm, unspoken words along his jaw.

A wet tongue probes gently at his earlobe.

"What are you waiting for?" Near whispers.

Forgoing a verbal reply, Mello unhooks one button after another, pushes the fabric from Near's shoulders, lets it crumple on the bed behind. He wants this—as much as he ever did, ever has—wants it _more_. This is the only way he wins, the only way he holds Near down and indisputably dominates, the only time Near's frozen white skin melts away and dares to betray the human being underneath.

It's a rush.

He pushes Near down on the mattress, the wrinkled shirt rustling beneath him, and nips the white neck, the collarbones, over the ribs, a wavy trail of red marks commemorating the path he's taken to the elastic waistband he's pushing heedlessly aside—

Near's breath catches, and he whimpers, but they're adults now, and what the fuck does he expect?

So Mello ignores a stuttered protest, biting harder at the taut stomach iced with pale hairs that taper downward, and shifts to proceed.

"_Wait_," Near gasps, and the urgency makes Mello reluctantly pause long enough to raise sardonic eyes that meet Near's gaze.

Near takes his hands, grasping tighter than he expects, and pries them from the narrow hips where Mello has been seeking leverage.

There isn't time for an accusatory glare before Near sits up and murmurs, "Let me."

…Mello likes the sound of that.

He likes it a _lot_.

He tries not to look too excited as he scoffs, jerks his wrists out of Near's reach, slides over, and settles against the pillows, raising an expectant eyebrow.

Near smiles.

Delicately and precisely, he undoes the laces, peels the leather aside—Mello's black-lacquered fingernails are already digging into the boy's white shoulders, but Near doesn't seem to notice.

The silken curls sweep over his pelvis as Near lowers his head, and Mello braces both hands instead on the bar that spans the headboard, clenching his teeth in anticipation; if Near doesn't hurry the _fuck_ up, Mello's going to kill him, and that's a fucking _fact_—

But oh, _God_, the boy obliges, and it's all hot, wet mouth and searching tongue, and the blaze in Mello's gut unfurls until it's deadlocked the whole of him, and he can't even _move_ but to throw his head back and fumble to clench both hands in Near's soft hair—

Near's too good at this. Some part of Mello protests that no wide-eyed albino virgin could ever plunge a practiced whore into this much unadulterated ecstasy.

The other parts have put a thousand miles between him and giving a shit.

Mello chokes out a broken moan as Near draws back enough to lick tantalizingly gently at the head of Mello's erection, so lightly that the blond's hips jolt despite him as Near dots butterfly kisses down the length of him and eases both of Mello's hands from where they twine greedily in the boy's hair.

Near's thumbs trace circles on the insides of his wrists, and his nerves sizzle, and the tongue laps indefatigably, and then Near clambers up onto him, straddling his waist, and guides his hands over his head.

Mello arches up for a panting kiss and receives it.

One of Near's hands maneuvers his forearms, and even as Mello sucks on the boy's bottom lip, the other hand delves behind the pillow, and then it sharply and deftly loops a pair of handcuffs around the bar in the headboard and snaps each cuff around one of Mello's wrists.

No. No fucking _way_.

Near sits back, impossibly solemn and composed for someone who just had Mello's dick down his throat.

"Tell me about the notebook," he says.

Mello snarls and lunges forward, straining against the cuffs, but Near leans out of his reach, and the motion only aggravates a building tension in his shoulders.

"You're cute, Mello," Near remarks calmly, "but I didn't come this far to get sidetracked. Not by you."

Mello isn't sure whether to be more pissed off at the fact that Near has so effortlessly deceived him or at the poignant detail that the little fuzzball just called him "_cute_."

_Near_ just called _him_ "cute."

This is wrong on so many levels.

He should be taking this worse, should be planning how to castrate the bastard and string him up with his own small intestine, but he's still circling back from the brink of orgasm, and right now the cockblock almost feels worse than the betrayal.

Fucking _hell_.

Mello takes several deep breaths and struggles to settle against the headboard in a way that doesn't make his fingers tingle.

"What," he grits out, "do you want to know?"

Smirking his triumph, Near bends close enough to kiss Mello's stomach with a bewildering tenderness.

"Everything," he answers. "And when we've finished this, we can get sidetracked all we want."

Mello has to admit that, given the few ways in which he could be coerced into collaborating with Near, this one isn't sounding all that bad.

Not that he's not going to smack the bastard so hard his mysterious mother will feel it from an unmarked grave somewhere in Europe.

But still.


End file.
